Beauty in Moments
by WithinHerHeart
Summary: A short, experimental fic in response to the prompt 'peace'. Sherlock/John. Rated T to be safe. More info inside.


_This is a thing I wrote randomly very late last night. It's a Sherlock Holmes (BBC) fan fiction in response to the prompt 'peace'. It's more of an experiment than anything else, really. It's also very short, but the first thing I've written in fuck knows how long, so..._

_Forgive me if it's illegible, it was written last night when I had too much sugar than what's healthy._

A lot of people just 'assumed' about John Watson. They never took time to look into him, his being, his ideals, his anything. It was most irritating. He'd had lots of time to get used to it, however. He knew he didn't look like anything special. He looked plain. Common. There were more interesting people to look at, to analyse.

The most popular thing people around him assumed was bloodlust. Or perhaps bloodlust was too strong a word? He didn't really look like someone who'd be happy and chatting about the weather one second, and slitting your throat and bathing in the blood the next. He'd met people like that, certainly (thanks, Sherlock. Thanks so much.), but he wasn't one of them. He remembered Mycroft's words all to well ("You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You _miss _it.") and sometimes, they kept him up at night. As did the knowledge that as soon as he closed his eyes, his barriers would fall down and the nightmares and the screaming and oh god the _blood _would return.

As much as he hated the people who said that, who dared to judge him, the dark little voice deep within his mind whispered and muttered that _they were right._

But right now, John didn't care.

A moment of peace was a beautiful thing. After all the hysterics and panic- the kidnappings, the murders, the chases, the threats, everything, it was amazing that sometimes the world was just...still. Some people called all of the above 'a cliché action movie.' John Watson called it 'Thursday'. It was remarkable and so wonderful to just sit and rest. It was glorious to relax in the warmth and enjoy the safe little pleasures life had to offer. And the pleasures your lover had to offer, too.

Sherlock doesn't like the moments of calm. Often, those moments are full of the consultant detectives huffs and sighs, rolling silver eyes and distasteful looks. He usually slams around the kitchen or simmers with annoyance in the corner of the living room. His doctor ignores his dramatics, usually residing in his favoured arm chair with a coffee and a newspaper, and he waits.

It's usually within two hours that Sherlock gives up. He sulks around the room like a wraith, but as time trickles on by far to slowly for his liking, he gravitates closer and closer. He knows his lover is toying with him, and that's what made it sweeter, but also more annoying. He will be a drama queen, throwing himself into seats loudly, then jumping up seconds later. Rinse, lather, repeat.

When he gives up, he will slowly approach the amused but still silent doctor, barely making a noise and only just moving his feet. He's almost gliding across the floor. When he reaches John, he stands there purposelessly for multiple, unbearably long seconds. He knows that John knows he's bored, and hates it. Like a child, he will then swing his mile long, lanky legs over John's. He plonks himself down and simply lounges on his lover's lap. He curls into his stomach and says nothing. He doesn't even look at him.

The first time it happened, the doctor was completely thrown and had no idea what to do. He stuttered his words and stared down at his lover and friend, confusion clear in his pastel blue eyes. The second and third time, he did the same. But now he had lost count of how many times he had a beanpole body resting on his, and he knew what to do. He tilted his head to the side and looked down at the aggravated detective, with a lopsided smirk on his face. The smugness radiated off him in waves and Sherlock hated it. The detective glared at the seat, still avoiding his companion's eyes.

They stayed like that for minutes, waging silent wars on each other. Sherlock had stubbornness, but John had stubbornness and experience. Eventually the consultant detective would look up and the two would lock eyes.

Seconds later they would kiss, their movements still slow, like they were living in a kind of dream world. Their lips would mould together, achingly and overwhelmingly perfect. Everything would draw to a halt and the world would wait with bated breath. John's smirk would lose it's smug superiority and would turn into a genuine, pleased smile. The two polar opposites would, for a while, become one being. It was beautiful.

Their lips would eventually, regretfully pull away. Even Sherlock, in his irritation would curse their painfully human breathing commitments.

And then, with that connection broken, the world would suddenly burst in colourful, noisy movement- children with shriek with joy, dogs would bark excitably and birds will sing shrilly. People will continue with their busy lives after their calm, sweet moment. They will chatter, and laugh, and Sherlock will take John's hand and pull him out of the chair. Finally, smiles will grace their faces and they will run, slam the door of their apartment, very nearly bowl Mrs Hudson down the stairs and shout their apologies as they exit the apartment. She will be affronted at first, as always, but will then shake her head and laugh at their antics. It makes her happy to know that throughout the often harsh and brutal reality of life, something as wonderful as their love could be found between two people no less deserving of it.

Life would resume as 'normal' for a few more days. Crime would be committed, lives would be devastated, and there would be moments of terror and panic. But there would always be the promise of a moment of peace in the mysterious, wild, but forever beautiful future.

_END_


End file.
